


Have Been, Should've Been

by krissmnasi



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Character Death, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Pining, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24073345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krissmnasi/pseuds/krissmnasi
Summary: All Harry felt when he died was loneliness and regret. Hamish is both of those.
Relationships: Harry Hart | Galahad/Merlin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Have Been, Should've Been

**Author's Note:**

> We crying tonight boys!

“This ain’t that kind of movie.”

There’s a reasonable amount of Harry that doubts Valentine will pull the trigger, the barrel staring him down in the eye like he’d shoot it with a glare, his hands down because they’re so subtly  _ shaking  _ with _adrenaline_ and  _ anxiety _ , blood dripping. After all he’s been through as a Kingsman, he’d never had enough blood on his hands for it to drip the way it is now, and it’s the only thing stopping him from wiping the bits on his face that are beginning to coagulate. 

Time doesn’t stop. For all the poetic descriptions of time slowing for a moment of reflection, Harry is almost  _ disappointed  _ with how quick it’s over. The bullet goes straight through his eye but he doesn’t register  _ pain _ . He registers the sudden cut between life and death. The world around him doesn’t fade. It’s like switching the channels of a TV, the screen cutting to black, being replaced with static. And then the channel changes again, to something a bit more recognisable.

> He has a moment with Mr. Pickle, giving the dog a light kiss on the back of his furry head, rubbing at his back in comfort. Mr. Pickle doesn’t have the mental capacity to understand what had just happened and Harry wouldn’t want him to anyways; the idea that Harry was about to  _ shoot  _ him wasn’t a guilt he wanted to carry for life. Not to mention, Harry only had the intuition to lightly feel the weight of the gun and simply hope he was correct.
> 
> “Congratulations.  _ Galahad _ .” Arthur makes him pick the gun back up, tucking it in his pocket to then return elsewhere because he’d rather not carry a gun around all day. He had, after all, been through a lot. He’d just become Galahad. He’d like a moment to celebrate, if it wasn’t too much.

Harry feels numb. He’s dissociated before, felt he was separated from his body in many ways more than one, but never to such a degree as this. He can’t snap out of this state; it’s simply how it was going to be.

> “It’s a prototype for now but tell me how it feels to put it on and use,” says the dark-haired muscular and lean Scottish tech agent, who’d just been the winning candidate for  _ Merlin _ . He was originally going to be the new Gawain- a field agent like him- but he swooped in to take Merlin when he heard the position was suddenly open again ( it turned out, Harry was later told, that the previous Merlin was a mole and was therefore compromised ).
> 
> Harry puts on the spectacles, a pair of black full-rimmed glasses with wires that run out the ends of the frames, looping over Harry’s ears then connecting to the computer that Merlin is using to program it. He presses a button and the lens lights up with a green display, simply the Kingsman logo in the bottom right and a small chat box in the left. It obscures Harry’s vision immensely.
> 
> “How do I look?” He turns to face the other man with a smile and it almost seems like he’s flushed- his cheeks turn red, if that’s any indication, but Harry is rather distracted by the HUD that’s covering most of the lens- but he hums something and writes in his notebook.
> 
> “Ye look good.” The tone in his voice suggests something more, but Harry doesn’t say anything about it. He’s probably overwhelmed with how his prototype is turning out, considering it’s his first. And Harry would hate to see that look disappear.

There’s the faint feeling of people hovering over him, but he’s not feeling their touch. They feel distant, they feel  _ panicked _ .

> A butterfly flaps its wings and lands on a leaf. Harry is hiding in the close bush, clutching to his butterfly net for dear life, eyes wide, blinking only once or twice before his hands  _ swipe  _ to bring the net over the beautiful and delicate creature. He’s smiling wide and gestures for Merlin- who he later learns is  _ Hamish _ \- to hand him the empty glass jar with holes poked into the top of the metal lid.
> 
> “Why butterflies?” Hamish adjusts his glasses as he steps out of the bush, brushing away leaves from his pants and watching as Harry screws the lid shut. He reaches into his backpack, taking out a granola bar and unwrapping the foil as he sits cross-legged in the grass. Harry follows suit, Hamish handing him one of the bars as he sets down the jar and watches the butterfly flail inside.
> 
> “Why not I ask you. Why computer science?” It’s a nice day to be outside. The sun is out, but not too bright, and the breeze is just the right side of cooling. The grass is swaying alongside other plants and Harry takes a bite of the granola.
> 
> “Just because,” Hamish responds, shrugging. He figures it’s a fair question to counter with, if he can’t find a reason. “I just like it.”
> 
> “Exactly. Which is the same response to  _ why butterflies _ . Just because.”
> 
> “Hm.”
> 
> Hamish picks up the jar, watching as the butterfly continues to flap needlessly against the glass. It makes small tapping sounds, like it’s angry, but he doesn’t know nearly enough about butterflies to name it, much less to understand its  _ emotions _ .
> 
> “ _ Nymphalidae Apaturinae _ ,” he says, Hamish looking up with one brow raised and his head tilted, his hair falling out of place. “That’s what it is. One of my favourites.”
> 
> “Oh.”
> 
> "Thank you, by the way." Harry means more than he says, but he's not ready to fully articulate that.
> 
> "For what?"
> 
> "For coming with me today." And he sees Hamish _smile_ with such a purity that it takes everything in him to not reach out and press his own lips to it. He bet it feels like a sunshine.
> 
> "Oh. You're welcome, then."

Someone lifts him. Still, Harry can’t feel it happening. He’d chalk it up to being distracted, if not dead.

> Harry has his head on Hamish’s lap, face red with tears, arms wrapped around the man’s thigh with his foot on the coffee table. In another situation, Harry would’ve scolded him, told him to put his feet down. But today was rather emotional for him so he kept sulking on Hamish’s lap with his own legs curled into his body like a cat. 
> 
> Hamish, with his one free arm- the other in a cast from leaning against the wrong wall to the elevator in fitting room one and then falling out, his body turning just in time for all his weight to crash and break his arm- he runs his fingers through Harry’s hair.
> 
> “He was such a good friend,” Harry says, still sobbing quietly.
> 
> “Aye.” There’s not much Hamish can say. He knows what the loss of a pet who’s been by your side for many of your hardships is like but not how to deal with it. The room is silent for a few seconds- save for Harry's soft sobbing- before he speaks up.
> 
> “Hm. Taxidermy.” The strokes in his hair seem to halt and Harry tilts his head to look up at Hamish who’s wearing a concerned look on his face. “I’m going to hang Mr. Pickle up with the butterflies.”
> 
> He’s not disgusted, per se. He’s just intrigued. Hamish laughs and Harry can feel his chest rumble with fondness.
> 
> “That’s proper sick, Harry. Get some damned rest, you’ve been crying all day.” Harry grunts at that, turning his head again and snuggling closer to Hamish’s thigh, adjusting his grip to be a bit more comfortable. Hamish shuffles a moment to adjust the pillow on his back, hand trailing down to sit at Harry’s waist, before they both go to sleep.

The best he can describe his feelings now is a  _ fade _ . Things he’s seeing are beginning to fade; the memories are seemingly  _ chopping up _ . And he feels  _ nothing  _ if not an intense feeling of  _ regret _ , of  _ loneliness _ , of the life he could’ve led if he’d just grew a pair and told Hamish how he felt all this time. Now he’s dying and he’s sure he won’t get another chance to say it.

> “I love you,” he says, staring at Hamish from across the room, a spur of the moment statement that he suddenly feels the need to rescind. But he’s glad his hastiness in love confessions doesn’t backfire for once.
> 
> “Hm?” Hamish responds, looking away from the large monitors and turning his attention to Harry, setting down his clipboard.
> 
> “I was asking about the next mission, the one in Tokyo,” he quickly amends, prompting Hamish to get up and look inside the metal filing cabinet. He pulls out a manilla folder, halfway full of documents, and hands it over. The cover is labelled with permanent marker.  _ Tokyo, March 2002 _ .
> 
> “The briefing isn’t until next week, though.” Harry feels a pang of regret. It's for the best. Their hands brush lightly when he takes the folder.

Harry feels ice cold, then suddenly hot. It’s a sudden feeling that washes away as soon as it enters, and then Harry suddenly doesn’t feel. He’s just gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have this HC that Harry has been pining for Hamish for YEARS but never acted upon it. While I'm in love with them dating pre-tss, I also feel like Harry is a stickler for the rules and clenches his heart with an iron fist when he falls head over heals for Hamish.


End file.
